


the pain of love lasts a lifetime

by heavenbreak



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Historical, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 04:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenbreak/pseuds/heavenbreak
Summary: The second he wakes up, the first emotion that climbs up his spine is disturbed. These particular dreams had yet to occur to Enjolras frequently enough to be concerning— though more often than not, he forgets having these dreams in the first place as he carries on his day. Nevertheless, there has always been that nagging in the back of his mind that tells him he’s had the same dream before, on multiple occasions.--- --- ---Reincarnation AU - set in late 19th century, post-canon





	the pain of love lasts a lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMERS:  
> i got very vague with the age as i'm not familiar with the french education system in late 19th century  
> there are at most 3 paragraphs depicting teenage masturbation but it's not pornographic i promise it's just really, really, awkward  
> the internalized homophobia is very brief but it is present  
> this fic also contains depictions of death, naturally, but they're reincarnated so it's not a big deal  
> and finally, all canon references in this fic are a mix of musical canon and book canon... that is all  
> hope you enjoy?? i've never written anything THIS long

‘ _Do you permit it?_ ’

Enjolras doesn’t quite catch the source of the voice; everything is just an assortment of blobs, shadows, silhouettes against the blinding light, and the dark anguish that clouded everything. He holds out his hand, but he doesn’t really know what he was reaching towards. Then there was a feeling of relief, sound assurance as he pressed the voice’s hand with a smile.

Everything strikes, quick as a bolt of lightning.

There is a ringing in his ears. He doesn’t feel a thing; there is no pain. His outstretched arms flail helplessly; he can feel the waves that rippled on his abdomen, vibrating with the shock that the bullet inflicted upon impact with his skin, bones, and organs. He would’ve remembered the sensation of his body hurtling itself outside a building for a fragment of a second before succumbing to the darkness, that does not so much as gently cradle him towards a stream of permanent unconsciousness, but rather clutches at him suddenly with an iron grip, and does not lend him more time to think of what else it should’ve felt like.

He does feel one more thing, by then. He feels fear.

* * *

 

The second he wakes up, the first emotion that climbs up his spine is _disturbed_. These particular dreams had yet to occur to Enjolras frequently enough to be concerning— though more often than not, he forgets having these dreams in the first place as he carries on his day. Nevertheless, there has always been that nagging in the back of his mind that tells him he’s had the same dream before, on multiple occasions.

He finally writes it down on the first page of a journal, refusing to carelessly abandon what felt like a distant memory now. He scribbles in a blank notebook he bought years ago but never bothered to open, afterwards trying to sleep again when all that is sorted. With each toss and turn, he finds, he’s getting more and more restless, and so he decides that three in the morning is a fantastic time to stand up, make his bed, and sneakily head outside without getting caught by civil guards well within his curfew.

He dodges past the stumps of trees in the darkness, already having his path memorized by the amount of times he’d defied the law, all in favor for some good company in nights like these. He needs someone to talk to— he knows just the one person who’d be awake, as he’d more than once done the same for the other. Enjolras reaches for the fence that protected the house (and does a terrible job at it, considering how easy it was to climb), and proceeds upwards then downwards again. As expected, he sees his acquaintance leaning against his window, staring at the vast woods that stretched beyond his house.

“Grantaire?” He says first, as soon as he catches the other’s attention.

“Oh!” Grantaire feigns surprise. “What brings you here in this hour?” He stifles a yawn, but they both know full well that not even Grantaire had his fair share of sleep this evening. He clicks his tongue, “To say that _you_ get cranky when I wake you up.”

“But I didn’t wake you,” The teasing tone of Grantaire’s voice somehow registered differently in Enjolras’ tired mind, had this been anyone else, Enjolras would already be in the midst of carefully manufacturing a 15-second apology for the disturbance, that is, until he remembers that this is _only_ Grantaire. He smiles devilishly, approaching his window in graceful strides, “Consider this your retribution.’

“Already, with your big words for my feeble mind. I can tell you’re already _so_ stressed. Remind me what that means?”

“You can’t be too stupid to figure that out for yourself.” (“Well, that’s not very nice,”) It all feels a little too much like Romeo and Juliet, this scenery, so Enjolras climbs a stout tree next to Grantaire’s window and sits atop a branch, meeting him face-to face, “I came to talk with you.”

“What are these pressing matters that drove you to seek for my advise in these trying times?”

”I’m not, seeking for your advise, I’m… well.” He thinks of why he really ran his way here in the dead of the night, silently giving up on it deciding that he _is_ asking for advise, after all. “I’ve been having dreams.” Enjolras finishes. A soft chuckle rumbles in Grantaire’s throat, though sounding like a choking noise to the other whom already knows what’s already in the humorously indecent mind of his companion.

“Mmm, dreams?” He purrs, insinuating something very wicked that strung a foreign chord with the other, though with no real intent other than aggravate the pacing boy. Enjolras will have refused to lose in any battle of wits, but if it is a battle of indecency then he shall gladly give the floor away. He shakes his head, a little annoyed.

“Hush, Grantaire, I don’t kid right now. Let me finish.”

“I’m listening,” Grantaire grins with his perfect teeth (Enjolras has crooked ones, he recalls fondly), though Enjolras isn’t cognizant of the true joy it brings to him when he’s accompanied by his voice in quiet nights like these. He has wondered of ways to make his appreciation known to this company several times before, but he’s not yet reasonably au fait with the patterns of Enjolras’ turgid interests, so he has instead resigned to smiling to himself, no care as to what Enjolras thinks of him.

Enjolras reads out his latest and only entry in the journal, ‘ _the_ ’ journal, as he’ll only be referring to just the one from now on. All other notebooks he owned seem obsolete, this profound information jumping out as _crucial_ to him. Grantaire makes no comment or noise throughout it, which made Enjolras think that perhaps he’d fallen asleep in the midst of his rambling. Enjolras lets an ‘R, you still there?’ out before carrying onwards, answered by Grantaire’s sluggish grunt.

“So, what do you think?” Enjolras quickly asks, as soon as he’s finished.

“They’re just dreams, you know.”

“They’re _strange_ dreams.”

“Dreams can be strange, yes.”

“Strange? Yes. Frightening? Now and then. So sad as to make you cry upon waking? Mostly. But… make you feel it, on yourself, on your conscious body, the strange sensation of being shot to death and hanging off of a building even fifteen minutes after you’ve sobered up from waking, feel as if it’s a dream you’ve had many, many times before? Never.”

“Hm… maybe I’m not quite sure, but, let’s give it some time, maybe?”

“No, something is amiss, R, I just know it.”

“And you are never wrong, in that retrospect.”

It angers Enjolras sometimes, how Grantaire can never seem to pick a side. First he disagrees, and then the next second, he’s nodding. One may think that they will never get along very well from the number of times they’ve argued, and that assumption will only be _partially_ correct. Grantaire is _not_ his best friend. Well, no one is, however, if Enjolras were forced to pick… it would be Grantaire. He’s someone he could run a few paces to at three in the morning and just ramble about the silliest, incoherent things on earth (he’s surprisingly willing to admit that just this time, albeit just to himself, and the thought is ever more short-lived, in its trademarked Enjolras fashion). Grantaire can be a lot of things to Enjolras, but he’s fairly certain Grantaire’s a lot of things to other people--- like, his friends. Friends he spends time with, other than Enjolras. And Enjolras has no one.

“Do you have any theories?” Grantaire asks after a while, presumed that maybe the time, as he could tell from the worn out clock, that quickly passed on to four in the morning was ample to make a couple of hypotheses. _So much for ‘they’re just dreams’_ , Enjolras spits the line in his own mind, but maybe Grantaire is simply entertaining the thought. He doesn’t have to, really, but what else could the boy do at four in the morning with sleep to chase away? “You know, what those dreams could be, as you put it.”

“My fate,” Enjolras does not miss a beat, though shivering at the implication of his words, “it could be that I’ll die falling off a building through a window, who knows.”

“Is that why you have those… those ancient, historic grates on your windows? Nobody else has them anymore, I tell you. We’ve gotten rid of ours.”

He knows Grantaire only ever groans about it because it means he wouldn’t be able to sneak into Enjolras’ bedroom at night and smother him in his sleep. He can say something normal in response, like ‘ _nobody’s getting rid of their window grates,_ ’ but instead he just has to opt for the only response his mind could offer at the moment. “It still goes well with the interior.” He bites back, bitterly, even when in actuality, he knows next to nothing about interior (or exterior) aesthetics.

“If you’re saying the inside of your room is more like a prison cell, then I can’t say I disagree.” Enjolras ignores the snide comment, and decides to expatiate to the fruitless conversation.

“It could be a past life.” Enjolras says, shivering more, rubbing his hands together to make warmth. The early morning  has still yet to pave way for the sunlight to come stream over the earth when it rises over the horizon. Grantaire thinks about letting him inside his room while he’s here, but decides against it, as his parents should be getting up any minute now. He would rather not have them find out he’s smuggled a cute boy in his quarters for the evening. He scurries the thought away before Enjolras can notice anything off, now struggling to keep up with the conversation while keeping collected.

“Getting philosophical, are we? I didn’t know you believed in those sorts of things.” Grantaire has said by then.

“’ _Believe_ ’ isn’t the most accurate term. I _believe_ in principles, R. I’d say, I’ve conjectured upon it.”

“Ah, yes. I didn’t know you conjectured the existence of past lives among a plethora of related feats. What a quicker, and more precise way to say things.”

“If _you_ were in my past life, I’m confident that I had been the one to kill you, in a slow, deliberate manner.”

“You know, that characterization of our relationship would not be far off.” Grantaire thinks back to the story his friend Marius told him in class yesterday, how birthmarks could indicate your cause of death in your soul’s former life. He wonders what that might’ve meant for his birthmark.

* * *

 

They end up bidding a sour adieu when the sunlight flowers muted hues of purple and gold behind the clouds. Enjolras takes his forgotten bicycle still in Grantaire’s yard outside the gates, thinking they were not children anymore, too old to still be leaving bicycles on each other’s yards after school hours. But, they were more or less neighbors and Enjolras forgets a lot of things, like his dreams and his bicycle. He skirts across the thinning woods back to his house.

Enjolras doesn’t think of their little commerce in the evening often. They don’t mean a thing. It’s the only time he can escape his parents’ grasp keeping him from wandering too far from the world and end up hurting himself, and the only time Grantaire is available from keeping so busy with his other friends. They’re almost like friends by circumstance. And Grantaire _isn’t_ unpleasant company, even if Enjolras acts like he is. That’s why he favors him so much— sometimes he’ll mince you, try his utmost best to jar Enjolras, but that’s how they’ve always been to each other, and he’s _still_ a great listener.

He remembers their little chat when his eyes travel upwards the three storey household, all windows only protected by frames and glass and curtains, but the sole window at his bedroom is indeed like a jail. When he was little, he’d almost fallen off, wanting to soar like a bird somehow flying backwards to indicate his inclination to deviancy, waving a red flag to signify his freedom. His parents had fixed up the grates on his window ever since. One of the many reasons why they hadn’t sent him away to a perfect, wealthy boarding school, was that they feared he was too courageous, self-assured, may actually end up seriously injuring himself one day. So he attends a nearby school, where he met Grantaire.

Grantaire and Enjolras don’t talk in school. They aren’t glued to each other’s sides like friends these days are— though Grantaire watches. They’re friends in subtle ways. He occasionally asks questions he knows Enjolras can easily answer, and asks for help in his Spanish class, where they’re seated next to each other. They’re not friends, not in school. They’re conversers. They talk, and it ends there. And Enjolras tries very hard to nail this into his brain, because he catches himself wishing it didn’t end there, and he felt like people shouldn’t think about others like that. Enjolras figured that if Grantaire wanted to be his friend, then he’d have already asked.

This is why he acts surprised when Grantaire approaches him by the schoolyard, with two of his friends. “This is my best friend Enjolras,” he says, trying to be kept nonchalant but the blonde could recognize the faintest lilt in his voice indicating excitement . Enjolras would have thought it was endearing, only if he hadn’t been caught off guard by the trio’s intrusion of the space he created around him, a bubble to guard his easily-fleeing thoughts on the way home.

Enjolras decides to keep his bicycle by his side, as the four engage in conversation, walking towards nowhere in particular. He should be home in an hour, so he trails by the new acquaintances seething with anxiety, almost fearing what he’ll come home to. His parents can be beasts when he stays outside past curfew.

“We’re here to help you,” says one of them, whom he learned is named Joly, or Jolllly, as he’d insisted, with four L’s.

“Yes, with your dreams,” nods another, Bossuet, Enjolras had named him in his head, but the boy insisted to be called Lesgle. Wherever Joly went, Lesgle followed. This left a bitter taste Enjolras’ mouth, for no obvious reason he could name. Had Grantaire told them? Enjolras thought perhaps Grantaire would keep it a secret, but there was no reason for it to be hidden either. Enjolras stops dead in his tracks, and almost immediately the group has stilled after Lesgle says, “R, here, told us all about them.”

“I thought you were above this, Grantaire,” Enjolras says sourly, thinking Grantaire must have made fun of him behind his back.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire replies, too defensively for Enjolras’ liking. Enjolras finds out that he can’t quite answer that question, so he continues walking. His lack of capability in answering the simplest questions is starting to give him a throbbing headache. It’s getting late, he should be home right now.

“Keep talking,” Enjolras orders the two, not feeling like him at all.

Joly starts to explain, “We might have some theories. Lesgle had the same dreams.”

“I was an eagle, you know, and I called myself L’aigle.” Lesgle adds, snickering, which earns a rather ungrateful scowl from Enjolras. Do they think he’s mad? They must. They’re laughing now, and looking at him like they expect him to laugh along. He doesn’t, the ache in his head spreading further across his temples.

“This isn’t a joking matter.” Enjolras finally replies, finished with the discussion at hand. “I’m sorry, I should be home by five.”

Enjolras huffs, and Grantaire’s swollen heart breaks into forty pieces as he hops onto his bicycle, driving it all the way home, faster than he supposed he’d ever ridden it before. He almost wanders too far off the trail and might have gotten lost in the neck of the woods hadn’t he spotted the red-tiled roof of Grantaire’s house at the corner of his eye. He doesn’t weep, Enjolras doesn’t cry over such things. He’s no longer a child. He spares the journal a meaningless glance before getting to work on his quadratic equations.

* * *

 

Enjolras is cold and harsh-- like frostbite from a winter chill, Grantaire had justifiably decided long ago. Oftentimes, rarely but surely came the season of spring, like a cheery air had brushed over his face. It introduces sunlight, golden beams like his locks, layers of snow melt away to reveal the blossoms dancing in the light breeze— they represent one of the little optimisms that Enjolras allows in his true perception. Though that’s not to say he isn’t optimistic; he does like to reach further than the average dreamer, but he closes himself off to the world more than Grantaire does, which should indicate a lot.

He is difficult to capture in just words, _that_ he also figured out thus far. Grantaire paints this picture in his mind, but it never comes close enough, which may be the reason he finds himself fawning more over the boy day by day, eager to know more.

It’s very much like a vice to him— to indulge in their little daily interactions and communes, gambling his heart out for the taking. And it feels good, to be devoted to someone who believes in him as well. Hardly anything is worth being devoted to, for Grantaire, when Enjolras was right there. It wasn’t far off to assume Enjolras returned the sentiment, though he didn’t _think_ Grantaire as a friend, it is still mostly the word he avoids to take advantage of, like it was a word he needed permission to use. However, he thought, out of all the boys at his school that he steered away from like the plague, he thought Grantaire was worthy enough company. He has the most peculiar things to say, isn’t afraid to defy him. Everyone else ever seems to briefly ruminate on what Enjolras had to say and forget about it, but Grantaire remembers everything, he’s witty and doesn’t fear the ramifications of pitting against it.

Grantaire still hadn’t been his friend then. Enjolras considered him a nuisance, but too tolerable to ignore outright. Yet, ever since that stroll after school, a casual “this is my _best friend_ , Enjolras,” slipped from him like it had been ages he’d thought of Enjolras as a boon companion, Enjolras can’t stop thinking about it.

And, miraculously, as if called by supreme forces to go to this particular place, this is where Grantaire finds himself, glaring at the window grates that pitifully guarded the opening to Enjolras’ room. He begins throwing rocks, bouncing off the metal with a precise aim. Enjolras pops his head out behind them once he catches the noise, looking like a soggy weasel from the way his normally curly hair drooped and poked out in unusual places.

“Apollo,” he tries his best to whisper while shouting. It isn’t that late yet, only eleven in the evening slowly prancing to midnight. _Apollo,_ the boy on the upper ground scoffed. He never caught why Grantaire started calling him that. He’s not a god. “Come down.”

“It’s _Enjolras_ , you buffoon. What is it?” Enjolras tries his best to sound vexed out of his wits, but all that comes is a voice entwined in grave melancholy.

“Just come down.”

He does, eventually, still wearing their school uniform, though the top layers peeled away and discarded at the corners of his room. His socks became uneven overtime; his beautiful golden hair a mess. Grantaire leads him to behind the house, where a garden is exquisitely arranged by one of Enjolras’ mother’s workers. Enjolras doesn’t know what to think of it, Grantaire leading him around his own house like he’s had it commit to his memory. They descend a path of stairs down to the fountains, where Grantaire claims a dry spot to sit on and urges Enjolras to do the same.

“Well,” Enjolras blurts out, willing Grantaire to speak.

“Well?”

“Speak.” He snaps. Grantaire holds his hands up in defense, not knowing where to begin. “You had me go through all this trouble of abandoning four, very important quadratic equations.”

“I can certainly say that you needed it. You look…” _Like you’re about to die with a terrible case of ennui._ “Are we quarreling?”

“ _What_? No, I don’t know… we’re not— what makes you think we’re quarreling?” They’re always quarreling, truly, so Enjolras doesn’t know why today’s quarrel is any different.

“You ran off so quickly earlier today that I’d think you… loathe me.”

Enjolras could just say, _yes, Grantaire, I loathe you,_ with a dead serious look on his face, and it would not mean a single thing. “Surely, you’d never think that.”

“You, of all people, should know how quite easy it is to loathe me, Enjolras. But no matter— I hope I hadn’t overstepped my boundaries.” And then it hits him— earlier, Grantaire called him his _best friend_. And he’s been mucking about it for hours, like a fool whose heart was so malleable but had a brain so stubborn and opinions so unshakable, he sat in a vicious cycle of hope and despair at the fact that anyone would call him their _best_ friend. He’s acting like a child in this moment, the child he so feared to be compared to. He’s not a good friend, he thinks, and he certainly can’t be the _best_. “We had a misunderstanding, us three. Those dreams you had weren’t a joking matter and I apologize for my friends in making it seem so. Lesgle and Joly were trying to help, truly—”

“I don’t care about those stupid dreams, R.” The sad boy interrupted the well-constructed apology (well enough coming from Grantaire, that is), the dreams don’t matter to Enjolras anymore, if dissecting dreams meant quarreling with Grantaire, then he’d like to stop. “They were strange dreams, and while I did feel like I was watching my own death, they were just dreams.”

“So… you’re not upset?”

“I…” Enjolras goes silent for a while, trying to probe how he should go about this. Admitting to _things_ he rather finds silly to admit isn’t a venue he’s comfortable exploring, one of those ‘things’ being coming up with a menial reason to be upset. “I still am. I don’t understand why you called me your best friend.”

“Oh?” _Oh?!_  Grantaire laughs, but stops almost immediately, as soon as Enjolras’ frown intensified. “Sorry, are you not my best friend?”

“Am I?”

“I’m yours though, aren’t I?”

“You’re _not_ , unless I’m yours.”

“Then we’re best friends.”

“But why?” Enjolras asks, never feeling so desperate for an answer after the fourth equation on his mathematics homework. Grantaire gives him a special new look, one that says ‘ _you can’t be serious,_ ’ a look of incredible disbelief at the turn of events. “R.”

“I confide in you, is that not enough?”

Enjolras learns new things every day. Whether it’s conjugating Greek, graphing linear equations, or finding out that confiding in each other is, in fact, enough. They talk above the sound of water rushing behind, leaves rustling in the cool, evening breeze. The bitterness that plagued the boy’s throat no longer comes around at this time where they talk as if the world contained only them. The added dimension to their dynamic freed Enjolras from the confines of his worrying mind. It’s midnight, and Enjolras feels content.

Grantaire is his best friend.

* * *

 

Enjolras could tell instantaneously that he was inside a dream, just as it began. Now, he only experienced it in visions, pictures and movement— but instead of hearing the dialogue of the talking people, all he heard was music echoing and reverberating across halls like an empty theatre. He recognized the distant melodies of a song he’d once known. “ _Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment_ ,” a male voice sang softly, haunting like a ghost yet enchanting, “ _Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie_.”

There was something about this place, though intact felt like it was in ruins. There was a vividly morose configuration in the way the people, _patrons_ , he’d decided, mingle about like they’re all collectively putting off more pressing matters, drinking their worries away. Enjolras was drunk too, an empty cup in his hand, dizzy and eyes watering, but nobody else knew that.

“ _J'ai tout quitté pour l'ingrate Patria,_ ” The singer continued, deep voice closer to one of his ears as his body warmed and ached. There was a hand pressing against his shoulder, but he didn’t dare to look— a feeling that he’d rather see anyone else than the person that could be vying for his attention right now. He realized that the voice of the miserable melody belonged to the person strewn across his shoulders, singing effectively, “ _elle me quitte et prend un autre amant_.”

The patrons began dancing. Enjolras was backed against the piano, thrumming with each note as the vibrations of the string sounded throughout the room. There was an unexpected kiss on his lips, and he hesitated before returning, sloppily and affected by the alcohol he’d consumed. His face felt warm, lips pulled apart but the words still clear on his mouth.

“ _Tant que cette eau coulera doucement_  
Vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie,  
Je t'aimerai, me répétait Patria,  
L'eau coule encore, elle a changé pourtant.”

* * *

 

There’s a significant gap in the time from where he wakes up, to putting his pencil to paper— this delay is mostly brought about by the stiffness beneath the fabric of his pants, kindled by the atypical abstraction. The bathroom is several paces away from where he lays, so his habitual pattern of writing down his dream from last night is steered off its routine as he puts to work on relieving his erection. Usually this would’ve been difficult doing first thing in the morning; Enjolras overcome with drowsiness which would lead him to get absolutely nothing out of rutting about.

But he is wide awake. And he got the job done under a minute, cursing under his breath as he realizes that he’s made three awful decisions made under the influence of torpidity.

One, he ruined his pants.

Two, he was thinking about his dream as he did it.

Three, in place of the voice that kissed him, he’d placed the visage of his best friend and trusted confidant, _Grantaire_.

The first thing he writes in the journal is ‘ _plaisir d’amour_ ’, a song he’s learned in class, and ‘ _patria_ ’, the name exchanged for Sylvie in his dream. He already has several entries written down before this, as he flips through the pages none of the other dreams were in this much detail. Enjolras contemplates if he should write about the kiss, but instead he writes ‘ _my mouth taken advantage by rum and the gentle music of plaisir d’amour_ ’ and ended the entry there, which is not inaccurate pertaining to the events that had transpired.

Perhaps they have known each other for quite some time, and Enjolras developed some feelings for him. They are in Grantaire’s yard as he contemplates this. Talking about his dreams with Grantaire after class, as customary, _somehow_ feels a little too personal with the current case, so he doesn’t say anything. Enjolras doesn’t even want to _think_ about the blatant trespassing of morality that he committed the morning he awakened; he thinks of how he himself has never been kissed before, so how would he know what a kiss feels like?

“You’ve never been kissed?” Grantaire says abruptly, stopping Enjolras’ train of thought.

“Rude. I was only thinking out loud.”

“Think a little quieter, then.”

“…Have you?” (“Pardon?”) “…Been kissed before?”

“Well,” He pretends to think, as if there had been several affairs in the past we’re he’d engage in societal matters like those, in an effort to come across as impressive, before finally saying, “No.” Enjolras huffs at that, crosses his arms.

“I—I, as well.”

“I’ve gathered.”

Enjolras punches him in the arm, firmly, earning a yelp that was satisfactory to Enjolras’ ears. They’ve never been kissed, Enjolras thinks and it isn’t as laughable, because they’ve never been _loved_. Grantaire intervenes his train of thought once more, “You’re thinking out loud again.”

“Sorry. I’m afraid I don’t have much to say, anymore. Nothing was particularly interesting enough in the dream I had.” He outright lies, biting his cheek.

“It’s okay, I love it when you talk,” Grantaire says almost hurriedly, and just as quickly diminishes the implications of his poorly disguised words with a shake of his head and a nervous laugh, “I mean, we can just talk. About anything.” Enjolras bites his lip.

“Do you… have you ever dreamt of being kissed?” The question raised Grantaire’s thick eyebrows. “I mean… not dreamed of it, but had a dream of—”

“Yes.”

“…and?”

“And what? Was it a girl?” Grantaire scoffs, and Enjolras’ face visibly flushes, _positively_ hadn’t been thinking about this morning’s incident. “I don’t quite recall if it was a girl, if that really is your next question.”

“So it doesn’t… frighten you, a bit? That it might not be a girl?”

“Why should it? It’s just a dream.” _Oh._ Grantaire places his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder with a knowing look, hoping to comfort him from whatever plagues him in his phantasms. His face deepens in color. That should’ve done the trick, really— Enjolras should no longer be worried, because Grantaire is right. It is just a dream. A sweaty, sticky dream, of his only friend kissing him senseless. But he doesn’t feel better. He feels worse. And then much, much worse, when he _realized_ he felt worse.

It could mean one of many things, feeling worse, like he latently wished it weren’t just a dream. Or wished Grantaire cared if he kissed a boy in his dream, then maybe he’ll think differently of Enjolras. He winces, the touch on his shoulder burning. Grantaire lets go, right when Enjolras was beginning to admit to himself that maybe he’d want that hand to stay there.

“Okay,”

“What about you?” Grantaire turns the question around on him, as Enjolras starts to break a sweat.

“No, I haven’t had any dream of the likes of that.”

“You’re an _awful_ liar. I almost pity you. Is this about the dream you had this morning?”

“Maybe,”

“Will you share it with me?” God, Enjolras wants to do nothing more, if it meant that it’d never happen again. But there are things you shan’t tell, not even your closest friends. He refuses to answer. “Earth to Apollo?” He gives in.

“Okay, but I pray that you don’t tell this to anyone.” Horrified. Enjolras is horrified at the way these events continue to unfold. It’s unfair, to Enjolras, to Grantaire, and to their past lives.

“I won’t.” Grantaire promises, simple as that. He doesn’t want to make the same mistake as last time.

Enjolras tells the entirety of the dream, and Grantaire sits and listens patiently. He deliberately leaves out the part that comes after, because any sane man would. Feeling close enough to completing his routine for the day now that he’d uncovered what the dream was to Grantaire, he asks what Grantaire might think. The dark-haired boy takes a minute or two, the other growing more restless as the seconds tick by. Enjolras waits and waits, patient. And so his patience is rewarded.

Grantaire starts to hum a tune, imagining a piano is there in front of him.

“ _Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment_ ,” he sings softly, and Enjolras is drawn almost immediately, heart pacing infinitely faster, “ _chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie._ Like that?” He nods.

The pleasure of love lasts only for a moment,  
the pain of love lasts a lifetime.

Grantaire stands from where they were seated, when Enjolras looks up his hands are already outstretched, the brunette still humming. One of Enjolras’ hands reach out without his regard, and Grantaire takes hold of it, grinning now. He begins swaying them both, and Enjolras doesn’t know where to put his hands. He settles for Grantaire’s square shoulders, swaying awkwardly to the makeshift music.

Grantaire is moving his feet now— no, Enjolras cannot dance— and they twirl about the garden in short strides. “ _J'ai tout quitté pour l'ingrate…_ what was that?” They stop in their steps, before Enjolras supplies the next line.

“ _J'ai tout quitté pour l'ingrate Patria._ ” Enjolras sings softer than Grantaire, shy. They resume dancing. Enjolras’ head is swimming, he doesn’t know what they’re doing but he _feels_ something and it’s eating away his insides, in a ticklish, brutally happy manner.

“ _Elle me quitte et prend un autre amant_.” The taller of the two, Grantaire, croons, keeping true with the dolefulness that tinted the piece. He isn’t quite sure what it meant to Enjolras, in the dream he had, but the song seemed significant, somehow, and he hates seeing the boy so troubled by it. So maybe if he lets Enjolras consume the melody in this conscious form, perhaps it will ease his fears.

You’ve left me for the beautiful Patria,  
and she’s leaving you for another lover.

“Sing with me, Apollo.” He tries to encourage Enjolras, both boys continuing the melody with wavering tones and syllables not synced to perfection but the sentiment is felt, which mattered most, “ _Tant que cette eau coulera doucement vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie._ ” The song, Grantaire’s intuition tells him, is symbolic of whatever feelings the man in Enjolras’ dream held for him, that is, in the case that past lives existed. And perhaps for a second too long, Grantaire entertains the thought of that man having been him, and their reincarnated souls hadn’t strayed too far, so that they could do exactly this, dancing in a peaceful garden.

As long as this water will run gently  
towards this brook which borders the meadow,

Enjolras closes his eyes. There are images flashing behind his eyelids, and he intends to get a good glimpse of them before they flee from him entirely. He sees pictures of hope, among friends, in the midst of a dreadful rebellion. He sees pictures of covert love, sheathed underneath the intact state of sobriety. He sees war. Atrocious war, the monstrous natures of man divulged in abhorrent ways that make explosions flashing in his eyes. He sees death, just among the edges of a picture of him and another man darkened like a vignette. Enjolras held a red flag in his left hand, and the other man’s hand in another. Then he sees nothing, so he opens his eyes to his right hand gripping tightly on Grantaire’s, still swaying now that they’re on the other side of the garden.

“ _Je t'aimerai, me répétait Patria,”_ the singing has been reduced to a lullaby, the pair inched closer to each other than when the song began. ” _L'eau coule encore, elle a changé pourtant._ ”

I will love you, Patria told you repeatedly  
the water still runs, but she has changed.

He sings like they were psalms, honoring Enjolras like a king. Enjolras can’t control the tears that escape his eyes and betray him, perceiving the moment has already passed when it has not ended yet. It has to be Grantaire, he repeats in his head the image of them with hands clasped so tight. It has to be Grantaire. Enjolras feels it, he can feel his soul yearning for the same man for all these years. Grantaire hears the smaller boy sniffling, so he draws him in for a tight embrace, patting his head as to soothe him through his crying.

Grantaire, at times, feels like he’s given way too much credit. Now, he doesn’t truly know what to do. He wants to say a lot of things to Enjolras, how hopelessly in love he is, how he fears things not falling into place as easily, because he cherishes their friendship so fondly. And it occurred to him more than enough times, how Enjolras might not return the sensibility.

“Tell me what to do, my friend.” He asks, pathetically.

Enjolras doesn’t answer. Instead, he wipes his tears and presses his lips against the others’, clumsy and lacking in grace. Enjolras kisses like his mouth is a pen, and he’s writing poetry in Grantaire’s, how much he needed this so badly. His most intimate sensibilities spilled across them both, enveloping them in warmth, an unspoken, gratifying conclusion to a century of yearning and lamenting past losses. They kiss with as much fury as when they argued before, pushing and pulling at the skin, testing the limits. Grantaire’s mind is screaming, all he wants is for them to be on good terms, and tonight he learns that nothing is better than kissing Enjolras, so he keeps thriving on the sweet poetry Enjolras is leaving him that he almost suffocates from the lack of oxygen, pulling away to gasp for air.

Grantaire watches as the other’s chest rises and falls, panting heavily. His eyes are swollen, and his cheeks are wet, so Grantaire kisses those, too, not minding the salty taste. When he is finished, Enjolras smiles, radiant as ever. One of the many moments Grantaire’s eyes likened him to the god of the sun. “Apollo,” Grantaire whispers. Enjolras’ returns his gaze, curious, and drowsy.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“You’re splendent— glowing. You’re… Apollo.”

There is a downy, velvety feeling that filled Enjolras’ insides. Grantaire has been calling him Apollo since the day they met. Perhaps it had only occurred to him now that Grantaire has always revered Enjolras, venerated him like he was truly divine. His expression is beatific, Grantaire decides. And Enjolras loves him more than anything he’s known in this world. He’s stupefied at how Grantaire found Enjolras worthy to stick around with, when he had nothing to show at first impression, and when all they ever did was talk, bicker, and argue.

But when they talked, it was like discovering a new novel that taught you the importance of attention to detail. Every conversation always left them wanting to know more. And they covet the strange company, in strange hours, for that Enjolras is grateful, because this certain strangeness led him to kissing the most beautiful boy in the world, in the middle of the night, in his garden, where they’d talked about his dreams.

“I am utterly grateful to have come across you.” Enjolras says, like the cavities left in his hole by his past life is made full, and they are complete.

* * *

 

Tonight, Grantaire finds out that Enjolras had eight birthmarks littered across the front of his torso, sized the same, and five more at the back. He notes how they look like the craters on the moon when you look at her from the ground. He traces each of them with a curious finger, presses his lips against them as if they were wounds his kisses were capable of healing.

They weren’t any older than from where he thinks this all began, but they’d both matured considerably well. They’re no longer children, getting more cautious in acting selfishly now and then. Revised, as one would put it. Some of their friends are preparing to serve in the military. Enjolras plans to write nonfiction novels on the history of France, and Grantaire paints pictures. Some of these pictures were dreams Enjolras had in the past, and they fit exquisitely in his gallery.

* * *

 

“I truly feel as if we’ve met before, now, I’m sure of it.” Enjolras’ lips traced the outlines of Grantaire’s birthmark that looks like a bloom protruding from his chest, marking his heart.

“Yes, well. You’ve known me all these years, Enjolras.”

“No, I mean… I’m certain we’ve crossed paths in another life. It truly happened.”

“What news have you found compelling?”

“When I’m with you, I live in a constant state of déjà vu, and without you I feel lost. You see, you kissed me, in a place that was demolished by war long ago. We died holding hands. I never saw your face, but it couldn’t have been anyone else. I loved you in another life, Grantaire, and I don’t think I made sure of making it known to you, because we were made to despise each other. I loved you. Just one life isn’t long enough to content us both. We had a life of turmoil, and horror. And now we’re given the chance to love in peace.”

He ends his spiel with a long, loving kiss.

 “Hmm… I’ll believe it.”

“Not even disputing me this time?”

“It’s not like it matters, Apollo. We’re here, right now. And I’ll love you right now, until the end of time.”

“I’ll love you yesterday, today, and tomorrow, my darling.” Enjolras presses a gently kiss to one corner of Grantaire’s lips. “When we die, which we will, eventually… I’ll just keep running to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr @bimnoodles


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